


Room 13

by Spatzi



Category: American Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Cameos from other fandoms, M/M, mentions of: Buster Keaton, mentions of: Harold Lloyd, silent film, stunt doubles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 14:27:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5970292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spatzi/pseuds/Spatzi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><strong>Prompt:</strong><br/>Lee Pace was a stunt double in old Hollywood in the age of the silent film. When a stunt killed him, he began haunting the hotel where he'd stayed back in the good old days - a hotel that Richard is now staying in during the shooting of his new movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Room 13

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [velcroboyfriends](https://archiveofourown.org/users/velcroboyfriends/pseuds/velcroboyfriends) in the [richleeprompts2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/richleeprompts2016) collection. 



> Virtual cookies for anyone who gets the cameos.
> 
> Also: velcroboyfriends, kindly accept my apologies for not writing up to your expectations. Tried to write something light-hearted but failed. Epically. *hangs head in shame*

He's beautiful, of course. This quiet man, so pure, so just, so noble in stance and gait. This man who, though handsome to behold and whose presence could light up the room, seems sadder still than the images of dark, damp places under the surface of the earth, of caves filled with treasures, of mountains and mist that his voice can conjure.  
  
"Ungrateful bastard!" He finds himself screaming at the man's reflection one day.  
  
"You are beautiful and well, and the world is your stage." He says the next.  
  
It's futile, of course. The man cannot hear him, and if he could, who can say that he would listen?  
  
So he watches him at night, when the day is done and the bedside lamp is bright and the only source of light. He watches him until he falls asleep, and is there to see him off with a snort when he leaves at ungodly hours in the morning.  
  
Sometimes he thinks about following him, as he was once wont to do with people he... ah, but there's no point in that now. So he does a turn about the room, once in the morning when the man leaves, once at noon, and three times more when the man is going about his nightly ablutions. All the time in-between he spends musing about one thing or another.  
  
Sometimes, looking at the man's visible bruises, he remembers things long forgotten: the smell of dust, falling wood overhead, the sudden darkness and the overwhelming feel of warm blood trickling from his temple. Or was it his nose?  
  
Did he ever break his nose? Once, perhaps. Twice, most likely. Or was that Keaton? No, Buster dislocated his shoulder. It was Lloyd who broke his nose. Perhaps they both did?  
  
There are times when he does not want to remember things...  
  
The man, this beautiful and noble being, so sad and quiet. They're alike in that manner. He knows; he can tell. He's seen that same look before. On who, he can't recall...  
  
Sometimes the man comes home late despite having left earlier than usual. Sometimes he doesn't, at least not until the sun has risen. On those days, his envy turns to something akin to pity.  


* * *

  
"I'm an actor."  
  
He once catches the man telling himself.  
  
"So you claim," he says in response, rolling his eyes at the man's reflection in the same mirror he had screamed at two weeks after the man started occupying the room. "Act happy until you believe it," he dictates.  
  
"My name is Richard, and I'm an actor."  
  
He snorts and goes to sit on the settee fronting the television. "I heard you the first time, Dick Winters."  
  
He laughs at his own joke, because noble names like Richard get bastardized into Dick more often than not, and this particular Richard is so sad a fellow, he no doubt gets mistaken as winter cold. This is what he tells himself, and it's not because he just remembered the previous occupant of the room who kept watching a show about bands and brethren. Or was it bonds of brothers?  
  
...was Dick even the previous man's name?  


* * *

  
Richard is tired.  
  
He knows; he can tell.  


* * *

  
Richard is sick.  
  
This makes him take seventy turns around the room in one day. Seventy one, almost, but the fever breaks.  


* * *

  
At exactly thirteen weeks, Richard leaves.  
  
He feels... well, it doesn't matter.  
  
Thirteen really is an unlucky number.  


* * *

  
He's taken to walking around the rooms on the other floors. He's not sure why, but it feels as though there's something he needs to find. He doesn't know what it is.  


* * *

  
He stops at the kitchens. It's on one of those days when he suddenly remembers what chicken smells like. He can almost taste it too. He certainly cannot touch, but it doesn't matter. He's happy enough to look at the thing and actually remember the smell of it.  
  
Dick liked it too. Once he came home with a bucket filled with fried chicken.  
  
He liked that guy. The handsome one. He was really very beautiful, with the voice of glittering caves and a smile as shy and fleeting as mist on the mountains...  
  
_Oh._  
  
Huh.  
  
It's actually Richard that he's been looking for.  


* * *

  
He remembers where he'd seen the man's sad look before: on his own face.  
  
It was a long time ago.  


* * *

  
It's been a year. Two, perhaps? Three? A year and a half, most likely.  
  
The couple occupying his usual haunt— _oh! A pun!_ —is certainly a handsome pair. The younger one has green eyes, the older of the two has brown. Clearly, they light up each other's world.  
  
It's a cold day outside. He hopes the older gentleman has a coat to wear over his suit; he doubts the man's ever-present umbrella is needed or will be of much use. It's cold, but it doesn't seem like it will rain.  
  
He rolls his eyes at the display of affection from the younger man as he pats at the other man's lapels, nodding at the older man's words:  
  
"Enjoy the ceremony. I'll be back in a jiffy."  
  
The young man eventually returns to his sprawl on the settee, eyes glued on the television.  
  
He takes a seat on the ottoman by the young man's feet.  
  
Huh.  
  
Apparently, Dick Winters— _Richard_ —really is an actor. And he's won himself an award.  


* * *

  
Two years.  
  
Richard comes back after two years.  
  
"Welcome home," he mutters, not even bothering to pause in his daily noontime walk about the room.  
  
And although he knows the man cannot hear him, even though he knows that the words are not for him, it somehow makes him smile when Richard says: "It's good to be back."  


* * *

  
He comes and goes, Richard.  
  
He never stays longer than thirteen weeks, never shorter than three.  


* * *

  
Richard has been gone for a long time.  
  
In a way, and this is just his suspicion but he's not entirely sure, he may have been a little in love with Dick Winters, with his ungrateful living heart, his sadness, his beautiful voice, and soft hands. But it doesn't matter. He can't remember much of anything, to be honest. Especially feelings.  
  
And soon... soon, he'll simply fade away like his memories.  
  
Well, sooner or later anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> [Buster Keaton](https://bethchristopher.files.wordpress.com/2012/01/buster-keaton2.jpg): [The Best of...](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_J8XM1_rOTg) | [The Real Buster Keaton](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UnUQgVDacsc).  
> [Harold Lloyd](http://150597036.r.cdn77.net/wp-content/uploads/2014/05/haroldsick.jpg): [Safety Last (1923)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QEcTjhUN_7U)


End file.
